


Forbidden

by Enchantable



Series: This One's Not Pretend [1]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantable/pseuds/Enchantable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herc's pretty sure he's going to hell and Stacker Pentecost is going to be kicking him the entire way down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forbidden

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Can you please write a prompt where herc and mako fall in love. I know it sounds like far fetched but i'm curious

She bites her lip as she works. 

Herc watches her under hooded eyes. Watches her because it’s easier than filling out the paperwork he has to. He’s Marshall now and saddled with all the responsibility of being the leader of a shatterdome. He’s also got to do all the shit that goes with using black market weapons to blow up multi-million dollar Jaegers that the world suddenly decides it wants. 

Mako quickly becomes his most dependable allie. 

She knows how to do everything that’s required of a Marshall, a hell of a lot better than Herc does. He wonders how sick Stacker was before he died, because Mako steps into his office and suddenly everything works. Documents get done, files get organized and when someone makes a phone call she nudges his words in the right direction, rather than the swears that get caught behind his teeth. She’s quiet and direct, calm and steady. She never oversteps her bounds but Herc’s not quite sure what he’d do without her. 

One night they’re working late and she swipes a hand through her hair, mussing the blue. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth and he sees it flush and swell where her teeth bite down. She squints at a piece of writing and he swallows, mouth suddenly dry. Her small hands spread out across the paper, urging smoothness out of stubborn wrinkles and he forgets how to breathe. 

His mind goes to those small hands, delicate fingers that hide strength and he imagines what they would feel like wrapped around him. He watches her bit her lip again, the other side this time and wonders what her lips would feel like wrapped around his member. He doesn’t even need to look down to feel where all the blood is rushing. 

"Mori," he croaks out her name, drawing her eyes to him, “that’s enough for tonight. Get some rest, we can pick up in the morning."

She doesn’t question him—thank God—and leaves with one of those curt nods. It’s not quite a bow, he doesn’t expect it to be. But handshakes aren’t something she does regularly, not with him. She slips out and he folds into himself on the desk, looking down at the hard ridge in his pants like it’s a sin. It is a sin. She’s Chuck’s age and he’s know her since she was young and he hadn’t given up on the world yet. 

He groans as his hand slides along his zipper when the image of her biting her lip comes up again. Except she isn’t just sitting near him, she’s back in her circut suit, the thick material encasing everything, making him imagine some things and see others. The pilots used to have a competition to see which pair could get out of their suits fast enough, but he imagines taking his time, peeling the thing off her and kissing every inch of skin he exposes. 

His hand slips into his pants as he decides he really, truly, is going to hell. 

And Stacker Pentecost is going to be the one shoving him down there. 

It’s a cruel, cruel trick that she comes in the next day wearing a pencil skirt. There’s a press conference and he’s got a suit on, tie loose around his neck until the last possible moment. It makes no fucking difference because she’s wearing a silk blouse and a pencil skirt and he can’t breathe when he looks at her. He fumbles with his tie, partially because he’s distracted with fighting his own disgusting impulses and partially because he’s shit with ties. 

"Here," Mako speaks up and though her voice is soft and low, it’s damningly loud to his ears. 

She steps over to him and he fights not to push her away because she smells like the tea that Stacker used to drink and the fabric softener that the launders uses on all their uniforms. She smells like ghosts and he hates himself for wanting to lean closer. Her knuckles brush against his skin as she does the last button on his shirt and he closes his eyes. 

"Sorry," she murmurs and of course she would think she did something wrong. 

"S’fine," he grunts out as she adjusts the tie, silk slipping across her skin as she ties a flawless knot and slides it up, folding his collar perfectly. He opens his mouth to thank her but she’s not done. She tugs and adjusts until the suit fits as damn perfect as all of Stacker’s did. Except Stacker didn’t fight not to tremble when Mako’s hands tucked his shirt in. Finally she steps back and he’s pretty much considering ripping off all his clothes and drowning himself in cold water. Except then he’d undo all her hard work and he can’t have that, “thanks," he mutters. 

"Are you ready?" she asks. 

He looks down and nearly drowns in her eye. They’re so dark he can barely tell where her iris begins. There’s a thin black line running along her lash line and she’s so close he can fucking count the individual lashes as they press onto her cheek when she blinks. She doesn’t look like she’s wearing lipstick, there’s just a smudge of something that turns her lips a shade darker and a thousand times more kissable. 

He realizes he’s staring like an idiot and nods, turning away from her. 

"Ready as I’ll ever be," he says scratching the back of his neck like that somehow makes this better, “any words of wisdom you want to impart?"

"Don’t talk faster than you breathe," she says. 

He wants to swear and fuck her in one breath. 

That’s damn good advice. 

He makes it through his first press conference and then another. He deals with the bullshit of being a Marshall and the glory of leading a shatterdome research facility. At night he loses himself in a blur of women who don’t care if he calls them the wrong name as long as he pays at the end of the night. He showers unti his skin is scalded after he comes in one morning smelling of booze and perfume and Mako glares at him from under her bangs. 

He’s not stupid enough to think it actually bothers her. 

They make it through the first day. Then the next. Then the first week, the first month, the second, the third and it slowly becomes easier. The gaping wound in his chest is still there, still agonizing. But it’s just a wound now, it’s not infected. It’s not still gushing, not still hemorrhaging. It’s just—there.

He knows how to live with wounds.

Mako watches him carefully. They test each others boundaries as they work together, moving towards something neither is sure of. He’s been a solider longer than he can remember. She’s one too, but she’s used to following orders. She’s a suborniate and a friend but somehow, without him actually wanting it, she’s become that fucking fixed point Stacker always told him he had to be. 

Some days he gets out of bed just so he won’t disappoint her. He shaves and bathes and gets his suits tailored so she won’t have to do as much work. He doesn’t give in to trying to drown himself with booze and pills and women after that first month. But he’s still a fucking pervert because he doesn’t get any better at tying his ties, just so she’ll help him out and he can feel the warmth of her skin. 

And then the fucking gala happens. 

"Fuck," he swears for the tenth time. 

He’s clean shaven which is strange in itself. His hair is freshly cut which is even more fucked up. There’s a bow tie around his neck and the tuxedo he’s wearing is actually tailored to fit. But there’s just been a knock at his door and he isn’t ready for what’s on the other side. He isn’t ready and he knows that as he walks over so she doesn’t have to wait. He knows that and he’s still fucking surprised when he pulls open the door. 

She’s breathtaking. 

The nude and black dress is soft and it clings to every curve she has. Her hair is swept back and held with a handful of crystal pins that glint in the ebony of her tresses. Gems sparkle at her ears and the paint that’s been used on her face makes her seem like something out of a dream. His mouth is dry as he looks at her and when she flushes he wants to pull her into his room and do unspeakable things. 

"You look—"

"I know," she says stepping forward, “hold still."

He fights back a whimper when he smells jasmine. She’s wearing perfume. She’s wearing perfume and he knows he shouldn’t be affected but, god help him, he is. he wants to tell her she doesn’t because Mako never thinks she’s good looking. Beauty isn’t prized in their lives so she never thinks about how heart stopping she is. She ties his bowtie and steps back. 

"We’ll be late," she says and he nods, following her through the deserted halls to the car that’s waiting. 

He can barely think at the gala. Mako stays by his side the entire time, whispering names he forgets a moment before they’re needed and steering him away from the harder liquor and social faux pases. They make the rounds and do their duties with hours to spare. He’s so relieved he practically falls into a chair as Mako slips off. When she returns she sits by him and he signals the waiter, getting them both drinks. 

He catches her looking towards the dance floor several times. 

It’s a gala and people dance at those things. Not the hot tempered, gyrating dancing but proper dancing. Waltzing and shit. She keeps looking up and he doesn’t want to touch her. But Mako spends most of her time looking after him and he can’t quite see himself being this much of an ass. He swipes his hands over his face as he hears the music swell up and knows the song will be ending soon. 

He gets to his feet and she looks up at him. Before she can tell him they can’t leave yet he’s holding out a hand to her. 

"Dance with me?" 

Surprise flits across her face and then gives way to a blush. She nods her head and gets to her feet as he leads them to the dance floor. The song dies down and then the music picks up in a new song. He pulls her closer and is very, very careful to keep his hand high on her waist. Hers goes to his shoulder as he begins to move them to the music.

Fucked up thing is that he remembers how to dance. He knows how to move. It’s even more fucked up that she does to. He leads and she follows without missing a beat. He moves them to the music, guiding them around the floor with the rest of the party goers. The lights of the ballroom play on the glimmers of jewels and the handful of sequins stitched into her dress. 

She looks like she belongs in a fucking fairy tale. 

There’s a light in her eyes and the idea that he’s done something to put it there makes it hard to breathe. They move through the rest of the people in the ballroom but when he spins her and that dress fans out around her knees and then she’s back in his arms, they could be fucking invisible for all he cares. 

They dance for one song and then another. And then the band plays something soft and slow and she steps closer before he can protest. Her head presses to his shoulder as he brings their hands closer, folding themselves into each other. She’s still got threads of blue in her hair and the thought makes his breath catch as they sway together amidst the partygoers. It doesn’t feel like they’re there to rub shoulders with the brass. It feels like they’re on a date. And for one shameful moment Herc closes his eyes and lets himself pretend. 

Then the song ends. 

They step away, silently seeming to know that there are no more dances to be had that evening. Herc clears his throat and holds out his arm. Shyly Mako threads hers through it and together they head out of the party. The car ride home is silent, but the faint smile on Mako’s lips never leaves. When they’re back he walks her to her room like he’s some gentleman. 

"It wasn’t too horrible, was it?" Mako asks. 

"Pretty fucking fantastic," he says without thinking and Mako smiles. 

"I enjoyed myself as well," she says. 

He realizes they’re standing close together and he has to swallow back everything in him not to close the distance between them and kiss her. Instead he nods his head again. 

"It’s getting late," he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow?"

Something flashes in her eyes but he refuses to give into the boyish, stupid hope that it’s disappointment. It’s gone as quickly as it comes and she nods. 

"Of course," she says. 

"Sweet dreams," he offers and she nods her head. 

"To you as well," she says. 

He nods back and waits until she’s inside before heading to his room. His dreams are never sweet. Not even when they’re of her—which they usually are these days. Maybe he’ll dream of tonight. Maybe she will too. His dreams are not sweet but maybe hers can be. 

He really hopes they are.


End file.
